Slow Motion
by CincoCinco
Summary: He could close his eyes and see Sherlock's afterimage... fading and flashing in colors behind his eyelids. This image will forever mark the moment when he stopped being the lovable good doctor and became the aching limping victim of loss.
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey! There are BEAUCOUP spoilers in here. Not to mention my hypothesis for the solution to the Reichenbach fall is embedded into this. Also, I am for sure American and talk in inches cuz i feel like it. Yeah! Let me know about any spelling mistakes you see... I'm sure there are some!

Also- any comments... greatly appreciated. :)

* * *

John stepped out of the cab, and stood firmly with his feet on the ground. He began walking... one foot and then the other. His body felt heavy. Each step filled with heaviness that made him tired. But he lifted his eyes to the rooftop and squared his shoulders. He looked at it. He stared that rooftop down. It was grey. It was cold. It looked like it would scratch his palm if he ran his hand across it. The windows were tall and thin. He knew that there was no natural light in most of the rooms in the building. He understood that it was flickering fluorescent inside. A light that was designed for the dead.

He could close his eyes and see Sherlock's afterimage... fading and flashing in colors behind his eyelids.

He can still see it. He won't deny that he can see it. He will never forget those last moments before he fell. They inch into forever. While he was begging Sherlock not to jump... he was also shouting at himself.

_Remember these moments, John Watson. Burn them into your memory. They are the final moments. These are the last moments that he will be breathing. He is still breaking. Remember everything. It isn't over yet._

And then time stretched from seconds to minutes to hours. And John spent each inch that Sherlock spent falling shouting inside of his head. _Remember this. He is still breathing. He is thinking about you. He is looking at you. He is looking at the ground. He is 1, 175 inches away from the ground. He is now 1,080 inches away from the ground. Soon there will only be three digit numbers of inches left between Sherlock and the ground. He is increasing in speed. He is scared right now. He is feeling fear right now._

He could perceive the distance Sherlock was falling minutely... he could almost see Sherlocks heart beating in his chest (faster and faster). He knew that the wind was blowing from the southeast because of Sherlock's hair and scarf. He knew that it was nearing on sunset because of the shadows on Sherlock's face. He knew that Sherlock's left shoe was untied- which led John to deduce how anxious and distracted Sherlock had been in the 40 minutes or so preceding the moment that he jumped from the roof. Sherlock was not the kind of man to let his shoe become untied.

The irony of John's sudden ability to deduce was not lost on him.

For the first time, he began to understand how Sherlock must feel. Did a minute feel like a year to Sherlock? Was this the way he had always felt? Was this why Sherlock was so detached from other people? Was the world always moving in slow motion for Sherlock?

_He is still breathing. He is still breathing and all I want is for him to be falling onto the couch at home. This all just being a terrible nightmare he was having but I would know what he had been dreaming and I would sit on him to hold him down and tell him never to leave me. And he would never dare to do something without telling me about it first. At this moment, he could still be that man. At this moment, he is still the man who knows me better than anyone else. Because he is still breathing. As long as he is breathing, there is the possible but highly improbable chance that I can save him somehow. But in 960 inches, this will no longer be a possibility._

And while John Watson was staring with his mouth open, he was actually burning, burning, burning.

_He is now 10 inches or less away from the ground._

John now understood what wanting meant. He wanted more than ever in his life. In fact, he knew now that he had never truly wanted anything before. The only thing that he ever wanted was for this beautiful, graceful, troubled genius to be safe. He wanted to remember what it was like to be the John Watson who expected Sherlock to sit on the couch with no shoes on, teasing and smirking. John felt his life ripping as he deduced that he would never be that John Watson ever again. He is a new John Watson who will be scarred forever, and wake screaming in the night. He will regain his limp and his heart will be broken. He will have the rest of his life to get used to this.

_There are no more inches left. Sherlock is now on the ground. Now it is highly improbable that he is still breathing. But there is still a chance that he might be._

_Now I am running._

_Now my fingers are on his wrist._

_Maybe his heart is just beating weakly. Maybe I have pressed his wrist in the wrong place._

_I try again._

_Seconds have passed._

_It is impossible. He must be dead._

John looked at Sherlock's face as time began to speed up again. Suddenly he heard all of the screaming and crying around him. John could deduce by the amount of blood that Sherlock's skull was broken enough that when lifted he might leak brain onto the sidewalk. Sherlock's eyes were lifted and open. What had he been looking at? Where had he been looking?

John needed to know what Sherlock was thinking those last moments. Was he thinking about John? John NEEDED to know.

What happens when you don't get what you need?

You suffocate. So hard that your lungs begin to burn.

First he tried to deny it. He tried to heal those burns. He tried to forget he had been burned, ever. He never came within a mile of St. Bart's. If perchance while out on a date or running errands he passed upon a cross-street... his throat would begin to close up and rising cold fear would fill his chest. The tightness would take him if he got too close to remembering WHY he didn't want to walk down those streets.

More often than not, he was able to perform his daily tasks with the tenacity of a person with only part of their mind left.

But now, here he was. Not only actively accessing his memories of the fall... he was standing in the exact same spot where it happened. But he was breathing. The seconds were ticking by as usual. He had no outstanding appreciation for these minutes. And it hurt him less simply because the parts of him that were broken that day had withered and died already. The sharp pain was gone. It was now a blurry and numb ghost pain that came like a phantom limb.

It had been three years. Three years precisely, in exactly five minutes. The afternoon light began to resemble the light that had been on Sherlock's face. But the wind was blowing from the north, this time.

He came here because Mary had asked him to. He had met Mary during the very short period of time when he had tried to continue Sherlock's consulting clients. Even though Sherlock had died, there was such a long backlog of people who were still interested. Some people had actually believed that they had been a team. People seemed to think John had been doing more than lovingly following Sherlock anywhere he wanted.

The moments (the slow montion forever moments) that happened during Sherlock's fall led John to believe maybe he could access those powers again. Now that he had experienced the focus required to deduce... he understood how to do it when time was passing normally. Of course, he wasn't good at it. But he was better than before. He was nowhere near Sherlock. But he realized that many of the cases that Sherlock had deemed "too boring", were just up John's alley.

He wished he had known he could do this when John was alive. When Sherlock was alive. When John was alive. When they were a "we". A "together'. An "us".

These were the kind of thoughts that made John scared to take any staircase higher than the second floor in any building, for fear he might be tempted to follow Sherlock to wherever he had gone.

But Mary had asked him to solve a case. She was a governess, and John had recovered the six pearls that had been stolen from her employer's safety deposit box. She thanked him by taking him to dinner. Then she thanked him by taking him to bed. He had cried the entire time, but she had not noticed. Silently tears streamed down from his face, and he managed to never let his wet face touch any part of her until he had first wiped it on the pillow. He made love to her in the dark for a many months before she discovered why he kept the lights off.

She had taken her time with him. She was so kind. Not only was she kind, but miraculous. Almost unreal. Because she had the capacity to love this broken down doctor. She loved him, and the parts of him that were broken. She wanted to help him heal.

She went with him to Bart's on the first year anniversary of Sherlock's death.

John had stood in the exact spot where Sherlock had died, while Mary stood in the exact spot where John had been watching- with her back turned. John kept his mouth set in a firm line while he lowered himself onto the ground. When he finally opened it it was to let out an quiet sobbing moan. He was laying and looking up slightly, just as Sherlock had done.

Now he knew what Sherlock had seen. The last thing he had seen. He had seen John- standing so very far away.

He can't remember how Mary took him home that day. He remembers the next day. He remembers the next year.

And the memories start to bleed into each other as he settles into the monotony of 'normalcy'. He only did detective work for a few months while he had obsessively thought he would feel less lonely if he could become Sherlock. He was not able to. Now he is at peace. He is peaceful. He is calm. He feels like there is a flat ocean inside of him. The parts of him that were capable of hurting don t feel real anymore.

And so John asks Mary if she would like to be his wife. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and John sees what Mary looks like when she is elated. She has never done this. There had not ever been a moment of deep passion between them. There was no fire. John had nothing left to burn. But it became clear when her eyes crinkled up and her smile broke her face apart... John made her happy.

And even though it was not his deepest desire... he was thankful. That he could make someone happy. Turns out, that was the best part about Sherlock. John truly made him happy. John had also been happy. But John knows he will never feel that way again.

He will never feel obsession and passion like that ever again. The wanting, the waiting... the need and unspoken promises of loyalty. John is able to turn his memories into forever moments. He takes himself to his mind palace and plays his memories in slow motion. He watches Sherlock's eyes widen, or mouth quirk up on one side.

John uses his newfound powers of deduction to investigate the faces that Sherlock used to make. He finally understood those furtive glances in the mirror when he was putting on his jacket. He understood why he played his violin at two in the morning. The way that Sherlock froze under his touch when John steadied a hand on his shoulder while handing him a hot cup of tea. He reached deep into his memories and unraveled the mystery of Sherlock s overwhelming desire for the good doctor.

Why had he said nothing? Why hadn t Sherlock ever made a move? Had John never made it clear that he jumped when asked to? Hadn t he run into danger with only so much as a flick of Sherlock s wrist? Sherlock s powers of deduction must of noticed that John wouldn t have minded a kiss or two here or there. Or perhaps everywhere..

John realized on the second anniversary that he had been in love with Sherlock. This was a very simple thing. it came with no amount of drama or theatrics. He didn't cry. He just stood still as a stone and finally identified the way they had been together. It had been love. John felt a flash of regret, and then let it go. He let it fly away into the air. He could do this now.

He knew that he didn t love Mary in the same way. Mary knew this, too. John loved her more for never holding it against him.

Now here he was getting married to Mary. It had a bit of a ring to it.

* * *

Two shots, ring out in the dark. And then a third. It echoes across the fields, through the night. A thud. A grown. A whimper. And then a breath. A gasp. A gasp gasped with the urgency only felt by the dying. The last rush of oxygen into the lungs. The death rattle. The desperate attempt to continue to breathe air. Only to fail.

Only after this sound evaporates does Sherlock take a breath of his own. He has been holding his breath for three years. Suddenly, air fills him. His cells rejoice in the oxygen. He feels the act of breathing inside of every bone in his body. His pinky fingers are breathing. His eyes are breathing. Suddenly, with a roar- his blood begins to pump again. He feels the ice melt out of his veins.

He reaches down and slips his hand into the pocket of the now-dead-man. He pulls out his various licences and identifications... and lastly... a faded and folded picture of John Watson. This is it. Finally. He finally found him. He had finally tracked down John s personal assassin.

He opens his mouth and feels compelled to scream and beat his chest and shoot his gun into the ceiling. Instead he opens the container of gas and begins to douse the body as well as all of the curtains in this old farmhouse.

He lights the fires and watches them burn for a few moments. The antique wallpaper browns and begins to peel. Tiny flakes of ash begin to rise with the heat. It looks like snow running backwards in time. He feels his body rushing backwards with time. He can actually feel the heat. It has been years since he has regarded physical sensations as worthy of processing and thinking about.

Now he focuses his mind on the sensations of his body.

Because this is the new Sherlock Holmes. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Not only was John's assassin dead, but Sherlock had methodically exterminated every single spider that had access to Moriarty's web. He had killed them all. Dripping with years worth of blood, Sherlock finally felt exonerated.

He finally felt like he could become the man he wanted to be. Perhaps he could become the man who lives in London with John Watson... and whose daring adventures and danger never stole one from the other.

He did not feel like that Sherlock, yet. He still felt like the Sherlock who laid still on the sidewalk of Bart's, with a rubber ball held between his arm and chest to cut off the blood flow to his right arm. He still felt his broken arm and ribs from the fall into the laundry truck. He felt like he was still holding still. His face still sticky from the pigs blood that Molly had shakily poured on him. He still felt those sedatives slowing his heart rate. He still breathed the slowest breaths of his life.

When John had checked his pulse, time grinded to a halt. It was not an intimate touch. It was a doctor trying to see if his patient had died. But Sherlock was always shaken when John touched him. No person had ever touched him with the familiarity that John did. Sherlock lived for these moments, and did a very good job hiding that fact from John. A passing hand on the elbow. A punch on the shoulder. A hand held out and grasping his arm for need of balance. The adrenaline rush when their thighs pressed together on too-small benches or cab seats.

Perhaps he would never be able to assure John's safety enough to come home again. It was highly likely that one of Moriarty's spiders would kill him first. He had an intricate plan in place- but if it failed... this moment would be the final touch. This might be the only farewell he would get. Not a hug, handshake... or barely hoped for kiss. Only these calloused fingertips touching his wrist. John's eyelashes. His furrowed brow. His shirt opening enough for chest hair to peek out- tempting and embarrassingly intimate.

And although Sherlock was sure that his faked death was enough to fool anyone... he secretly hoped that John would notice how improbable it was. He shouted and begged with his thoughts for John to notice that none of the people picking him up were real doctors. He begged John to remember that no medical professional would ever lift a patient with a possible spinal injury onto a stretcher without a neck brace unless he was confirmed dead by an on-duty professional... which John currently was not.

If John had understood all of these things than perhaps he would look Sherlock in the eye, and wink. Then he would play along, and cry out with grief. And he would act convincingly... and the assassin would believe it. And then John would wait and behave himself and understand that Sherlock was going to come home soon. And his heart wouldn t break... instead he would live in happy anticipation. And then Sherlock would come home and slide John into his arms and then give him tea and things would be normal again.

Of course, Sherlock understood that his fantasy was completely illogical. But for the first time, Sherlock desired something that made so little sense it was completely impossible. John would never figure it out, and even if he did- he was a terrible liar and a terrible actor. Only John's real grief and sorrow would convince the assassin not to shoot his sweet and ernest blond head.

Waves of unrealistic disappointment washed over Sherlock as he felt John s hand loosen it's grip on his arm. It took everything Sherlock had in him (and the sedatives he had taken) to hold completely still instead of taking that hand and kissing each finger. When Sherlock saw John's knees buckle in grief, he could hear Moriarty's mocking laughter echo through his body. Even though Sherlock was alive, Moriarty had won. Moriarty had won. As the stretcher began to roll him away, tears began pouring out of his eyes. His face did not contort. His chest did not shake with sobs. He could not risk this. But he could not stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes.

Then he was in darkness. He felt the pop of his skin when Molly inserted the syringe of steroids back into his arm. The pain of his arm and chest came into full understanding as he began to take full breaths again. The sedatives began to wear off, and he was no longer in the dangerous chemical state of his heart stopping.

Molly perhaps tried to hold him, or offer condolence when she saw the tears on his face. He does not remember what happened. He has deleted those memories out of shame.

Sherlock had gone to the roof after Molly had taken him to the morgue. He knew it wasn't safe, but he was good at hiding in plain sight. And he didn't want to tell Molly what he was going to do to Moriarty until he had already done it. He needed to be sure that he was dead.

He went to the roof with a stolen bone saw and removed Moriarty's head from his body. The sawing was difficult and messy. Sherlock used his left arm, for his right was possibly broken and still numb from the rubber ball trick.

He knew that Jim was dead, actually, when he arrived on the roof. But he was feeling a new feeling. It was not something he had felt before, and he found he could not control it. Rage. Shaking and aching rage. Wetness came out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he continued to saw into Moriarty's spine. He knew that these were tears- indicating deep loss and sorrow. But all he felt was the need to remove that grinning head from his evil body.

He could already feel the time spent away from John Watson. He could already feel his betrayal shaking him to his bones. He had wondered if he really should just kill himself... because he was not sure if he would ever be able to exterminate Moriarty's network thoroughly enough to ensure John's safety. He also wasn t sure John would ever forgive him for this deception.

Sherlock could only calculate a 50% or less possibility of success for his task at hand. For a feat of this nature, he would need the good doctor by his side. He never felt this need more sharply than this moment. He was not sure that he could do this alone.

But he had.

Moriarty's head was buried deep in the ground, and John's assassin was burning and Sherlock pulled out his phone and began to do something he had been fantasizing about for years. The possibility of this moment, no matter how improbable, kept him fiercely hunting for 1,095 days. 13,140 hours.

This moment had been the one thing that had kept him from other rooftops on other buildings.

He knew it would be precisely one hour until he could reach the train platform. Then it would take him exactly 1.75 hours for the train to take him to London. He would sleep for one night (because John would want him to. He hadn't slept in four days), and then he would walk slowly to 221b baker street. He did not want to run, because he wanted to be calm and un-sweaty for John. He would wear his coat again. He found that he wanted to look... presentable.

He sent John Watson a text message.

_Tomorrow. 12pm. Meet me at Baker Street. SH_

END OF CHAPTER ONE.


	2. Chapter 2

John wasn't listening. He wasn't doing it to be rude. He just wasn't listening. He was somewhere else. He was in his mind palace.

"John?... " Mary let out a disappointed sigh and furrowed her brow. This was unusual for Mary's usual patience with John. "John, what did I just say?"

"To be honest, Mary, I just want what you want." John didn't even try to pretend he had been listening. This was one of his better traits. He had stopped trying to hide his feelings ever since he had been with Sh-... well, ever since his past life.

"But I want you to want things, too."

"Mary, really. I promise. Making you happy is something that brings me great joy. It is the thing that has made me the most happy" he takes her hands in his. She is getting more angry and takes her hands back.

"John, it actually doesn't make me happy to have a fiancee who has no investment in the planning of our marriage. I want a husband who is interested in participating with me. I actually don't want to be a housewife or an interior designer. I find all this decision making to be just as difficult as you do. I want help. I don't want to do it alone. What else am I going to have to do alone, John?" His understood that she was talking about having children. John had considered this already. He was sure it was a normal choice to be making.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text message alert rang in his phone. Mary didn't so much as blink. Suddenly the world slowed to a grinding halt. Mary was frozen mid-sentence. The fly across the room stopped beating his wings. John stopped breathing.

No, it couldn't be.

Mary would have no idea, because she recieved text messages often. Nobody texted John anymore except for Mary. But this could be anyone. It could be junk mail. It could be Lestrade. But he hadn't heard from Lestrade in years...

Despite the impossibility of his hopes.. he still hoped them.

John let the time speed back up to normal. Mary continued speaking. John knew that he was damaging something important by not listening. But he simply couldn't. He wasn't. He knew he would be in trouble if he checked his phone now.

He did it anyways.

_Tomorrow. 12pm. Meet me at Baker Street. SH_

Mary was gone. He wasn't sure when she left.

John didn't move. John didn't breathe. When he finally did, he gasped. He gasped and panic rose in his throat. He started choking. He ripped open his shirt collar. He closed his eyes and attempted to stop hyperventilating. But he could not. He just lay there, and panicked.

This couldn't be Sherlock. It could easily be one of Moriarty's gang. It could be anyone, harboring ill-intent. He has no ideas what their motives are. Maybe they want to enlist John for something dangerous. Suddenly air fills his lungs and his pupils dilate and he realizes that danger might be close. Real, bloody, heart thumping, danger.

Thank fucking god.

This possibility keeps John from doing anything. He doesn't go home to Mary. He simply walks. He walks a giant circle around Baker street.. He buys a packet of cigarettes. Not to smoke, but for Sherlock. He will smoke just one and then throw this pack into the river after he kills whoever sent this text message.

He sits inside of a pub and drinks a beer while smoking the ciggarette languishingly. He hasn't smoked cigarettes since he was in the army. But he enjoyed the sensation of poison entering his bloodstream. He needed something to do. He needed to feel something.

He counts the hours, unable to sleep. He watches the television. He speaks to no one.

He feels like the man he was when he returned from the army. He has never felt so alone again until this moment. He is torn between extraordinary hope and the re-opening of his never ending loss. He is bitter and angry and has a loaded gun in case Sherlock is being held in front of him like an idea. If this is a tool of torture, it is working. And he will punish severely for it.

But how did they know that Sherlock had always signed his text messages "SH"? As if texts were just tiny letters. John had always found that adorable. But now it was a sinister clue that set john's deductive reasoning spinning into confusion.

He leaves when the bar closes.

He walks with no direction. Taking a left every mile or so. Preparing to arrive at Baker street. Like a landing airplane. Silently circling in the air until it is time to arrive.

The dawn is breaking when John begins to tighten his flight pattern. He spirals closer and closer to 221b over the next coming hours. He keeps a watchful eye to see if he is being followed. He sees nothing. That does not mean that he is not being followed.

He still has a key to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson lives in another part of town. She tried to sell the building, and nobody would purchase it. She had even had the bullet holes professionally repaired. It didn't matter. It was as if anyone who walked in understood that the place was nothing without Sherlock and John's banter filling it up.

It was quiet, it was dusty. There were no sounds. John sat on the first step, squared off with the door, gun drawn. He understood that it was not the most strategic place to sit. If he was really prepared to kill, he would hide behind the door. This place was a great place to sit if you were prepared to get shot. But suddenly that is what John wants. A good and honest duel. If only to distract him from the searing burning pain shooting through him.

He had thought that those parts of him were dead. But they were just sleeping. They had still been burning. They were barely more than ash and dust. But they could still feel. Incredible loss.

Hours passed. He sat while the morning light angled into afternoon light. And at precisely 11:59, John Watson saw the shadow of feet under the crack of the door. They seemed to … present themselves. They weren't absent-minded. They held completely still. They knew that John was there. John had not tried to hide his tracks. His oily fingerprints on the doorknob. His fresh key scratch on a lock that hadn't been used in months.

There was a knock at the door.

John stood, and felt dizzy. He put his hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He was only inches away from understanding what trajectory his life was going to take after this moment. If it was an assassin, John would be a fresh-blood-covered murderer again. He would explain things to Mary (as he always did). When he spoke of death, she always became uncomfortable.

He wondered how long she would take to forgive him for ignoring her the day before. Not only that, but ignoring her for Sherlock Holmes. Yes, they had talked about it. Yes, he was dead. No, he would not run into Sherlock's arms and cheat on her... you can't cheat with a dead man. But she was trying to tell him something important... and he had dropped her and her feelings for Sherlock Holmes. Dead or alive.

This was not Sherlock behind the door. This was an enemy. John let this anger and bitterness swell up inside him. He was a fool. He has fallen into a trap. He is going to kill this motherfucker and try to get Mary to forgive him. He cocks his gun.

There was a second knock at the door.

John turned the lock and swung the door open, and immediately slammed it shut and fell down to the floor.

Sherlock leaned his head on the outside face of the heavy door.

"John. Open the door."

There was a muffled moan.

"John. Open the door. I need to speak with you."

"NO" the sound was quiet through the door, but John had shouted it.

"Please." Sherlock put his fists on the door, on either side of his face. It was not often that his emotions began to create a panic for him. He was surprised at himself. He knew that this was coming. He knew that John would be angry. He thought he was more prepared.

But he was panicking. He had done everything. Everything he could do. He has killed so many people. He has slept under bridges. He has been shot twice. He has sat in motel rooms and sewn himself shut, his fingers shaking. He has scars all over his body that he wants to show to John. John will smirk with a pitying look on his face and promise to be the surgeon from now on. Won't he?

He had hoped for a tearful reunion. Perhaps a hug? A hug, how stupid. How stupid he could be despite his brilliance. He feels like a teenage boy again... awkwardly aching for things he will never have. He is not the one to be touched. He is not the one to be loved. He is the cold. The calculated. The razor- to be used to cut the truth away from the irrelevant. He tries to call on these truths but they do not comfort him.

Despite his embarrassment, Sherlock is aching to be touched. Even if it is just a handshake. Even if it is a slap across the face. Sherlock leans his entire body on the door, tip to toe.. Nobody would know (unless you were John) that Sherlock was writhing in agony, though he appeared to be standing still.

The door creaks open, and Sherlock hears John stomping up the stairs.

Sherlock gingerly closes the door, and chooses to feel everything in this moment. He can smell the dust. He can feel the dirt shift under the sole of his shoe. As he carefully walks up the stairs, his heart aches for each creak of each step. How he missed these creaky stairs. He can feel the pressure change ever so slightly in the air. The light is streaming through the windows and dust particles rise. He can see each step that John has taken. How long has it been? Taking steps behind John Watson? He can hear John walking in the flat above him. He closes his eyes and thinks of all the times he ever heard John Watson walking on the floor above him.

He catches a glimpse of a shoe... a pantleg... the fluttering of a coat... John is just around the corner above him. He wants to leap up the stairs to catch up. He wants to jump ahead and tackle John to the ground so that he can hold John down and stare at his face. He wants to burn that face into his eyelids. He wants to see John nervously lick his lips. He is desperate for a glimpse of the sad sideways grins that he never realized he would miss. Sherlock's eyes are burning from the short two and a half second flash of John that he received at the front door. He can see rage, anger, and murderous intent.

He takes a deep breath. He feels himself ripping apart from his past. He is no longer the Sherlock who hunts, alone in the cold. He is no longer the Sherlock that deletes all notions of comfort. The hunter was able to sit in the freezing rain while waiting for his kill, deleting the sensation of each raindrop as they hit his face.

Now he is trying to become the Sherlock that he wants to be. He wants to be the Sherlock who can be with John Watson. He wants it to be effortless, again, to drink a cup of tea with the good doctor. He wants to feel. He knows that he can feel if John is there.

How can he make this happen? He has to be careful in the coming moments. If he does this incorrectly, he may not be able to touch John in any way. He journeyed so far for this

moment. If he fails to succeed... all is lost. If all of this murder and hunting does not amount to gaining back access to John Watson- he might return to the rooftop of St. Bart's. No. He doesn't mean that. Does he mean that? He is surprised by himself.

He understands that John Watson is angry. No, John Watson is hurt. This a risk that Sherlock had always seen fit to take. He would explain this. John Watson would see the logic. But John Watson was not a logical man. He was emotional. He was warm, and empathetic. He found value in the human heart. And his heart was hurt. Despite the obvious, Sherlock was worried. According to his previous knowledge, John Watson will want to move back into Baker's street and sit on the couch at night with Sherlock. He will get upset when Sherlock does something inconsiderate, and then Sherlock will learn a new behavioral pattern to please John. He will please John. In fact, this is all he has ever wanted.

Watson's slamming of the door and current behavior has led Sherlock to believe that perhaps, this is not possible. Perhaps something is wrong. More wrong than a feeling of betrayal.

He reaches the top landing, and sees light pouring through the windows of what used to be his flat. Their flat. John Watson is standing with his back to Sherlock. Sherlock feels punished. All he really wants in this moment is to look at John's face. But he must wait. He must not upset John.

His footsteps echo loudly through the now empty room. Their furniture is gone. Their books are gone. Sherlock feels emptied by this. He expected it... but never understood how lonely it could feel.

Still... he knows that something is very wrong. He observes John. John is standing with his arms crossed in front of him. If only he could see John's face- he would know EXACTLY what to say. John must know this. He is hiding his eyes and face from Sherlok to avoid any uncanny amounts of deduction.

Well played, John Watson. Sherlock smirks.

"Hello, John."

"So you aren't dead then, are you?"

"No."

"But you let me think that you were."

"I did do that, yes." Sherlocks voice vibrates through John's bones. John is not able control himself. He can't look at Sherlock, because he is not sure what he would do. He can't make up his mind. He wants to feel happy. He is afraid that he will feel his heart stop. He is aching to touch Sherlock. But more than any of those feelings, he feels betrayed. Betrayal of the highest order. He has spent so much time begging in front of Sherlock's headstone for him to simply "stop being dead". But he never considered how he would have felt about being lied to.

"H...How could you do that to me?"

"I took a sedative on the roof and jumped into the laundry truck where Molly poured blood on my head..-"

"Molly! MOLLY for christ's sake, Sherlock? Molly knew this whole time and you never told me?"

"...and then I tightly held my rubber ball in between my arm and chest to cut off the circulation to my right arm. And then I held very still."

John felt himself crack like an ice cube in a warm glass of soda. Incredible. Amazing. Fuck.

Sherlock was begging John to turn around. He wanted only to see John's face. They had been standing here for 4 minutes and 45 seconds, and he can't wait much longer. Does John not understand that this is not fair? He has done so very much and traveled so very far. He is aching... almost shaking with the desire to see John's face.

"_Christ,_ Sherlock..." John hissed as he slowly begins to shift his weight and turn around.. "...That's amazing."

Sherlock lets out a breath that he has been holding and it rushes out of him like pressure dropping before an afternoon thunderstorm. He watches John's face slowly rotate to face him, and he memorizes it. Time slows to a grinding halt and he watches each angle of John. He has been itching to read him, and suddenly it is very clear to him by John's eyes, mouth, and creases. He has missed something very important happening in John's life. He still can't put his finger on it- but he is focusing so sharply on the tight feeling in his chest that he does not take the time to investigate the rest of John. Instead he becomes flustered and overwhelmed when John's eyes finally lock on his own. He swallows, hard, and feels his mouth became dry. He has forgotten that John is quite attractive. He has forgotten to prepare for this.

Suddenly it is not enough to simply be looking at John. He takes a step forward.

"STOP". John takes a step back and holds his hand up, his defenses immediately raised. He is hurt. He is not ready to forgive. Sherlock has broken every rule. Sherlock broke something that was so obvious that it didn't even need a rule. Never break John Watson's heart. "Why? Why would you do that to me? Why couldn't you trust me? We were PARTNERS. Didn't I prove my loyalty a million times over? Hadn't I earned your trust?"

"Moriarty had three assassins poised and ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't kill msyelf."

John is lost for words.

"And just to be sure I had nothing to bargain with, Moriarty shot himself in the brain. There was no way to call the assassins off, after that. So it was necessary to jump. It was to ensure your safety. Your life."

All of the little hairs on John's body stood on end. He never imagined he would hear about that moment from another perspective. He never thought that another person would ever be able to share something about that day that could surprise him. His brain faltered, clicked, and then began to whirr and spin with calculations.

"Sherlock- you had that plan put together the day before. You had known you were going to fake your death before we even got to St Bart's. You had tons of preparation to do..." Sherlock nodded ever so slightly to affirm this. "...but... still... Sherlok, still! Why didn't you tell me? I could've helped you! We could have done this together!" John's voice cuts through Sherlock with the word "together". He feels his insides made of paper. Folding and ripping and easily cut.

"John... you are a person who is very honest... and good. Deception and... lies... are not your strongest suit. I was not convinced that you would be able to pretend to grieve with enough authenticity to cement your safety."

"You're saying I'm a bad actor."

"...Yes". Sherlock smiles in a tiny way- hoping to get a rise out of John. Perhaps a smirk? Half of a smile? A tired shake of the head and a chuckle? Sherlock is grasping at straws.

Instead, Sherlok sees the angry John again. Sherlock feels embarrassed. He sees John get quiet. John rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, and when he speaks again it is a harsh whisper.

"Sherlock. It has been three years. Why now? Why not sooner?"

"I've been hunting." Sherlock says quietly.

"I don't understand" John furrows his brow and frowns.

Sherlock does not feel up to telling the entire story. It is so very long. There are things he doesn't want to tell John, yet. Things he hasn't said outloud to any person. He also understands that John can read a wound the way that Sherlok can read a face. He would much rather John just have evidence to deduce with.

Perhaps he feels like being absolved.. Maybe somewhere deep inside of him he was actually frightened the entire time. Frightened that he might've died before this moment. Maybe what he actually wants is for John to see how much he has suffered. Perhaps he wishes deeply for John to stop being angry and start being comforting.

He shrugs his shoulders and lets his coat fall to the floor. He begins to unbutton his shirt unceremoniously.

John feels a rising panic as Sherlock begins to remove his shirt and let it fall to the floor. John is blinded by his desire, and feels unbalanced. He is trying to have a conversation, damnit, how can he do that when he can't stop looking at...

John's eyes fly over Sherlock's chest. Knife wounds. Some quite bad. Bullet wounds... one in a lung. The other in the right shoulder. John takes a step closer to see the scars. Without thinking, his doctor's habits bring him across the room to Sherlock.

Alarms and whistles and bells sound in Sherlock's mind as John crosses the room.

The stitching is messy. The wounds healed poorly. When John reached out to run a finger across scar tissue, he stops. "What were you hunting?"

"Any person who was connected to Moriarty's network. I hunted them, and I took them. Sometimes they tried to take me, too. Yesterday I killed the very last man. He was your personal assassin. He had this in his pocket." Sherlock held up the photo of John. John felt chilled and cold. John reached out to take it, but Sherlock slipped it back into this pocket.

This possessive exchange prompted Sherlock's face to blush. This did not escape John's notice. His eyes flickered back to Sherlock's scars. Suddenly he became aware of exactly how close he was to Sherlock. Twenty minutes ago he was prepared to murder someone for pretending to be this man... who was standing only inches in front of him. Sherlock was alive. He was breathing. He was real. His body was filled with creaking bones, and rushing blood... a beating heart. He reached up and touched the long scar that was alarmingly close to Sherlock's heart.

Stars- light- explosions. Sherlock's body evaporated. He deduced nothing. He took a rattling breath and shuddered. He leaned ever so slightly into the touch, and John's entire hand splayed across his chest. John ran his fingers up and down the scar- counting the suture marks. He could feel his heart thudding against John's palm. He chose to remember these sensations.

When Sherlock had been lying in the snow, hiding in a trash bin, or sleeping under a bridge.. he had never fantasized about this moment. Every move that John made was surprising. Sherlok had always focused simply on arriving back at Baker street and knocking on the door. He would never allow himself to imagine what would happen after the door opened. An open door led Sherlok to a sense of longing. He was afraid of longing. It could only hurt him. Either he would be able to knock on the door, or he would never make it. There was no telling what would happen past the door. He was no slave to longing.

He had deleted longing when he laid on the ground, bleeding from the chest with Irene Adler's open and dead eyes fixed on his. He had cried out in agony and writhed on the ground- stung to his every fiber with betrayal, her dagger still deep in his chest. She had missed his heart. She had always had the arrow slightly off target with his heart, even though she had been able to pinpoint his desires. Killing her had been killing a part of himself. And perhaps she had missed his heart on purpose. Perhaps she let him live because she knew that he had a greater purpose... to care for and tend to a genuinely good person.

Irene and Sherlok had laid on the ground and wrested in their mutual disgust for themselves. Betrayal. Murder. Lies. Deception. Their battle for survival was almost futile- for the two of them could both hang at the gallows for the wrong they had done in their lives.

But Sherlock had a good man who needed him. Perhaps this was the only upper hand that he had.

As she died quickly from the gun shots in her lungs, he could not help himself from moaning her name and reaching out to touch her face. Her last act was turning her head to kiss his palm and giving him a tiny smile.

"You did these sutures yourself, did you?" John whispered, trying to imagine

"That... was... a time when I really... I really needed a good doctor." It was enough to tear John apart at the seams. "I.. really... needed you... then." He let out a short and sharp breath. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, trying to keep his cool. Sherlock tried to calm his whirring mind. He tried to go to his mind palace, but the doors were all locked, and he was left outside, completely exposed and falling apart. John Watson was touching him and his nerves were on fire with the sensation of it.

John Watson watched Sherlock with a new perception. He had never seen Sherlock be... vulnerable. He rather liked it. He always felt vulnerable. Perhaps Sherlock had only ever been pretending to be unfeeling. Perhaps that was his supreme defence mechanism. John slowly ran his hand up Sherlock's collarbone, and slid his hand up to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock shuddered, and his face contorted.

Sherlock whispered. "I... am sorry, John. Please forgive me." John barely heard it, but it broke him.

John closed his eyes and slid his arms around Sherlock, tucking his face into Sherlock's neck, his hands gliding over Sherlock's naked shoulder blades. In that moment- they both gasped. A knot in a rope slipped loose. A bucketful of water fell and saturated the sidewalk a darker grey. Joints popped into place. An aching body lowered into a bath of the hottest water. The thunder clapped and the clouds broke and rain poured onto fields of grain that had been baking to death in the sun.

John was warm. He was warm and he was safe. He was safe and he was alive. He was alive and he was holding Sherlock. Sherlock could feel John's heart beating through his own chest. It was quickened. Sherlock had seen his pupils... dilated. John's breath was in his ear. It was irregular. Sherlock had been waiting for this before the Reichenbach fall. He had been waiting for this since he met John Watson. He finally knew. He gathered information. He deduced. It was overwhelming. Things began to blur.

John wanted him, too.

"Sherlock... I missed you." John's voice hitched and squeaked.

Sherlock's knees buckled and he began to slump in John's arms. He slid out of John's grasp and onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed and was pulled down with him. They landed in a pile on the ground, with John propped up on one elbow. John put his hand on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock!" He turned Sherlock's head to face him, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open.

"... I... John?"

"Sherlock, when is the last time that you ate?"

Sherlok did not respond. "Sherlock! How did you even get this far?" Sherlock still did not respond. John's hand was on his face and his body pressed against his. He didn't need food. He didn't need comfort. He didn't need anything but this.

John began to get up "Let's get you some food..."

"No... please. Please don't go". Sherlock put his hand on the back of John's neck and snaked the other around his waist, pulling him close. Sherlock laid on his back and John ended up with his head on Sherlock's chest- his face next to the worst of the scars. "Don't go- stay with me." Sherlock repeated.

Every grace that Sherlock had ever had was whittling away. He had always desired to do this- to simply hold John Watson. To get close enough to have as many chances to observe how he felt. His texture. His hair. His scent. But John was silent. John was starting to stiffen. His shoulders began to tense.

"John? I can feel that you are tense. What is wrong?" He looks down and sees a grimace spreading over John's face. He starts to feel panic. Was he incorrect? Is holding not a good idea? is this ruining things? Sherlock begins to sit up and John pushes him back down harshly. Sherlock's head hits the floor, and he looks up to see John's angry face above him.

"Don't leave you? Don't leave you? Stay with you?" John's lip began to turn in a slow shake. "I begged you not to leave me. I screamed for you to not leave me. I begged you to stay with me at St. Barts. I visited your grave every week. I went to St. Bart's on the first anniversary of your death and I laid down where you died and pretended to be you-" John's voice cracked at the end of his sentence and his voice began to shake and grow deeper while it fought to sustain itself instead of a moan. "I had to move on from you, Sherlock. I was dragged to a new life without you. I had dreams about you falling. I can still see it when I close my eyes..." and with that, John closes his eyes and heavy tears fell like coins onto Sherlock's face.

For a time, the only sound is John's shuddering breaths and tears fall freely down his face and he tries his best not to be loud about it.

John gasps when he feels lips on his cheek, and the cool feeling of Sherlock's breaths on the wet tracks on his face. Sherlock's lips are soft, and John's cheek is downy. His eyes flutter between open and closed. He had Sherlock pinned with his hands but Sherlock has him pinned with his lips.

John lets go of Sherlock's shoulders and simply shivers with pleasure as Sherlock's face flutters across his. His hands fall limply across his lap. John leans back until he is sitting between Sherlock's knees, and Sherlock sits up to follow him. John's legs wrap around Sherlock's middle.

Sherlock murmurs, dropping tiny kisses along the tear streaks on both side of John's face. He holds John's head in his hands and whispers "I promise. You'll know everything from now on. I'll never keep you in the dark again. I'll make you tea. I promise I'll make tea more often and this time I'll go buy the groceries. I'll do whatever you want. I'll even take boring cases. I promise."

John's face freezes. Sherlock's eyes whirl around John and he understands that something is wrong. There has been something itching at the back of his mind. Only since mentioning the plans to live together did John seem to fully recoil.

"You aren't going to move back to Baker street with me." Sherlock says as a fact. Or perhaps as an accusation. His body goes cold. He is completely focused, now. He throws open the doors to his mind palace.

John closes his eyes, and sighs. John opens his right hand, asking for Sherlock's silently. He procures it. Then John puts his left hand into Sherlock's palm, and slowly grasps it while pressing gently with his right. Not only does he hold Sherlock's hand with both of his hands, but he gently squeezes together, offering something.

Sherlock's chest tightens up and he understands what is happening. He closes his eyes and runs screaming and breaking everything inside of his mind palace. He burns it to the ground. His mouth sets in a firm line.

There is a ring on John's finger.

"...You're getting married."

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm getting married."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. John moved on. John really did move on from Sherlock. He mourned, grieved, and then he moved on. He left Sherlock behind, in his grave. He didn't keep the idea of Sherlock alive. He buried it. Sherlock had kept John alive every day for three years. He felt betrayed.

"How DARE you, Sherlok Holmes. How dare you feel betrayed!" John's face turns hard. Sherlock is surprised that John read his face so well. Has John focused his skills of deduction? "You were DEAD. I held on for so long. I lived a miserable excuse for a life! There was nothing for me! I even tried to be a consulting detective!" John laughed bitterly and put his hands over his eyes. "I was rubbish, I really was... but it kept you alive, Sherlock, to do the work. I tried to keep you alive. Then I met Mary."

Sherlock grew stone cold when he heard her name. Who was this woman- who got to touch John? He knew by now, everything. She was petite, smaller than John. She cleaned up John's bad manners. She had taken care of him. She had groomed and nursed him into being the man that sat here between Sherlock's knees.

"Mary was there for me, and you were not. That is what happened."

Silence befell them. For the first time, John remembered the world outside of Baker street. He heard a car rush by outside. He closed his eyes and realized that he still needed to call Mary. She must be worried. Mary... Oh, christ, MARY.

John opened his eyes and realized what he was doing. He was sitting in between the knees of another man, his face freshly kissed. He was entangled with a very attractive shirtless man- skirting around the fact that they are in love with each other. This would be considered cheating. John is a man who does not cheat.

John begins to get up. He disentangles his legs from Sherlock's waist, and gets to his feet. His limp feels overwhelming. He turns and hobbles to the window. He wishes he was a different person. He wishes Sherlock was a different person. He wishes these things had never happened. He wishes he loved Mary as fiercely as he loves Sherlock.

Sherlock is alone, and cold, sitting on the ground with no shirt on. He immediately feels the fool. Any magic of the moment has left him, and he now feels embarrassed. but he is far too proud to ever show it. Even to John. He is determined to preserve his sense (or facade) of pride. Sherlock had not permitted a woman like Mary in his calculations. He never doubted John's loyalty. Now he had lost his flatmate because he had simply been wrong. The sting of wrongness burned Sherlock. He stood up, and put his shirt back on, buttoning from bottom to top. He understood that John stood with his back to Sherlock to give him privacy. Privacy. When had they ever granted each other privacy? Never.

"You weren't wrong, Sherlock. I was always loyal. I was fiercely loyal. But it was killing me. You have to understand, Sherlock. It burned the heart out of me." John almost whispers. But it echoes and breaks all of the glass in the world for it is so loud. It is an echo reverberating from Sherlock's past. Sherlock shudders, and all of his wounds start to ache freshly again. He feels the past rushing back to catch him, and he feels Moriary's slithering breath run up his spine and whisper in his ear again and again and again... _"Sherlock Holmes, I'll burn the HEART out of you"_

He was right. He did. Moriarty burned the heart out of John Watson. The only heart that Sherlock ever had.

He won. Moriarty won. Yet again, Sherlock is assured of this. He feels the agony of defeat crawl over him. Moriarty knew. He always knew. He knew that Sherlock would hunt and kill and by the time he was done return to John only to find he had moved on. Moriarty's network had been extremely numerous. He accrued such a network just to die happy with the knowledge that one day Sherlock Holmes would stand naked in front of John only to be denied. No, you can't have me. You are a ghost.

Sherlock turns off his emotions. He deletes his feelings. He is no longer interested in inputting information other than the logical. He shuts his heart down, and it's gears whir to a grinding halt. It is time to leave John Watson. He will not go to the roof of St. Bart's. He needs to go sit on a bench and stare at the Thames and decide if he is going to let John go or conquer this Mary character. He turns and walks out of the room.

John does not try to stop him. He sets his soldier's stance, as rigid as a weapon. He squares his jaw, licks his lips, and nods silently to nothing. He feels tired. He felt like he might've died in the past hour. He is now a shell of himself. He is used to feeling this way.

He hears the slamming of the door beneath him and far away. He steps forward to the window and sees Sherlok Holmes disappear amongst the passerbys. He watches Sherlock fade away, again. But this time it is not in slow motion. It happens quickly.

He has absolutely no idea what to do.

CHAPTER TWO.


	3. Chapter 3

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Funny, this weird new hobby of mine. This whole thing went from one passing afternoon writing down a tiny thought to this weird fic that gets longer with each chapter. Also- increasingly squishy and dramatic. Hopefully y'all will like it. Also, I had originally intended to write something where John and Mary get married and Sherlock runs in during the whole "speak now or forever hold your peace" part. But I realized how cheezy that was and how BULLSHIT it'd be to Mary! Granted, all I want is detective blowjobs all around- but I don't feel like Mary should be disrespected at the puplit! Not even for the sake of drama and sherlock crying out "but i love yewwww" at the entrance of a church while John passes out from too many feelings. (that was how it was all gonna go orignally)

Mary is a cool broad. I tried to give her some gumption. I prefer female characters who stand up for themselves. Go get it, Mary! Too bad your fiancee is super gay. Oh, Jawn.

CHAPTER THREE:

John opened the door with a soft click. He took his shoes off by the door (Mary's rule) and softly padded into the living room. His plan was to make himself a sandwich, and sit at the table and wait for Mary to accept his apology. His apology for... what? For cuddling with a dead man?

**… **How was he even going to start?

But to his surprise, it was Mary sitting at the table with a sandwich. Two, in fact. One delicately bitten into... one waiting just for him. Was this a trap? A delicious sandwich trap? Because John was very hungry and also knew that he deserved punishment.

**"**How is Baker street, John?" He is frozen. She knows. She knows what he has done. His weird infidelity. He wonders about how to explain...

**"**I'm sorry Mary-"

**"**No, John." She interrupts him. "I'm sorry."

**"**...E...excuse me?"Is this a verbal trap, John wonders? Perhaps the good ol' not-angry-but-just-dissapointed?

**"**Yesterday was the third anniversary, wasn't it?" She furrowed her brows, her hands folded on the table, incredibly sweet and sincere. She was ACTUALLY apologizing to him. John felt like dirt. Lower than dirt. He felt like he was barely even carbon based. Only somebody inhuman could ever lie to this sweet person. "I didn't even think about it John, I'm sorry, I was only thinking of myself. Of course you were distracted... I should've known. I love you and I'm sorry and I hope your day wasn't too bad. Did you sleep at Baker street?"

John was speechless. He had no idea what he could say. The tables had turned around so completely that they were right back where they started. He had the opportunity to tell Mary anything. Why shouldn't he? He should tell the truth.  
**  
****"**I walked all night and went to a pub. I smoked a cigarette. I went to Baker street this morning. I wasn't there for very long." These things were all true. Of course he was skipping out on the TRUEST thing. Sherlock Holmes was alive. John was making a choice, now. A very strong choice.

But he didn't want those kisses on his cheek to be anybody else's business but his own. He didn't want Mary to know about the pleasure of wrapping his legs around Sherlock's waist. He didn't want to tell her about how tiny he felt with his face in Sherlock's neck. He also certainly didn't want Mary to know that not only had John been deceived by Sherlock... so had she. Mary had spent so much time saving John from his demons... she had been the one to keep him from following Sherlock off the roof of Bart's. She had given years of her life to healing John. Now they were... for what? What was their relationship, really, but his recovery from Sherlock? And Mary deserved better than this. She deserved a husband who didn't run back to Sherlock Holmes. She deserved a man who would stick by her.

He felt a pang of longing and resignation when he realized how unhappy it now made him to imagine himself as that man. But it was too late. He was already her man. He owed her so much.

**"**John?" She whispered, and he crossed the room and kissed her. He didn't kiss her fiercely... for fierce was never a way to be with Mary. He kissed her as tenderly as he hoped he could. He was thanking her for those years. He was apologizing. He was looking for something. He had kissed those lips so many times and he was trying to find comfort in their familiarity.

His mouth kissed Mary's but was longing for Sherlock's. When Sherlock had kissed his face, his mouth had been parted, his lips aching to be kissed. Sherlock avoided John's mouth. He kissed everywhere else- but his mouth was burning with longing. John tried to erase that burn. He tried to soothe it with Mary's kisses. It didn't work.

He reached down and picked Mary up, simply. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her down.

Everything he did then was a sad blur to him, and he felt foolish for even trying. Because, of course, he was thinking only of Sherlock. When he slowly slid off Mary's skirt, he could only imagine taking it off of Sherlock instead. **"**_Really John... you fancy me in a skirt?"_Sherlock's voice echoed through his brain. John's mouth turned up in a smile at this, and Mary gave him one right back. This tore through John, and he lost any amount of erection that he had been trying to muster.

He undressed her carefully, and tended to her with his hands. She was soft all over, not hard and angled like Sherlock. He had always understood and appreciated the beauty of women's bodies. He tried to conjure all of this back up. He was obsessed with women's bodies for most of his life. It was only when Sherlock came into his life that he began to notice how attractive men's bodies could be.

In the beginning, he began to have very embarrassing erections without warning. Sherlock would do something normal- like bending over to retrieve a bag of thumbs from the fridge, and John would stare. It was as if he was 14 all over again. His inability to hide his arousal led him to walk out of the room often at these moments. He was sure that Sherlock never noticed, because he gained control of himself quickly, having figured out how to do so when he was 15. But he never expected to use those skills around a man. He observed himself over the months that began to pass. Perhaps it was just loneliness.

So he dated as many women as he could. He dated countless women, and they satisfied him only a bit. It never worked out in the end. But they sustained him from even considering other possibilities. And at the end of a good shag he always went home to Sherlock. His life was fine enough, for him.

That was, of course, until everything came crashing down from the rooftop.

And now Mary's back was arching, and she rocked back and forth into his hands. His shirt was unbuttoned. She was completely naked. He didn't want her to see that he wasn't aroused in the slightest. He didn't want it to be true. He kissed her stomach as she rocked less and less, and he pulled his hands out from inside her and crawled up onto the bed.

She wrapped around him like a small creature, and he held her as he was used to. She rested her head on his shoulder, and all he could think about was when he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

He was doomed.

Sherlock sat at a desk at Baker street. He had found the desk on the street. He had paid one of his homeless network to help him. When he had approached her, she had stared at him through her long bangs... and looked heartbroken. Or perhaps happy. Sometimes he couldn't tell.

**"**I thought... you were..." she spoke and he realized how young she was.

**"**Oh. Yes. About that. I'm not." He had almost forgotten.

She helped him take the desk up the awkward flight of stairs, and when they got to the top they both heaved gasped for breath. The desk had been more heavy and more awkward than anticipated. "You owe me more for that, Mr. Holmes." She raised an eyebrow.

He reached into his pocket to find more cash, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "No, I mean... may I wash up?" she cocked her head at him and he furrowed his brow. " Down the hall." He turned and dismissed her and walked to his desk.

He sat down in the chair he had found the previous day, and put his feet up on the desk. Mrs. Hudson had not been by yet. As soon as she did, he would pay her rent. Until then, he would continue to squat in this building that he already had keys to.

But for now, he made plans. The building echoed with the shadows of John, and it was clear to Sherlock that he must win John back. Without John, he was no longer interested in detective work. Now that he understood what it meant to have a partner- it was not logical to work alone. It would be far too boring.

It was also abundantly clear that John did not want to marry this Mary character. He wanted to be with Sherlock. He knew this. He just had to get John to take action. Perhaps he needed to kill Mary.

No... John wouldn't like that.

The girl walked out of the bathroom wrapped only in a towel. She stood in the center of the room. He heard this, but did not turn to look. He heard the towel drop to the floor, and he could feel her nakedness in the room.

**"**I'm not interested." He laid out flatly before she could even proposition him. He heard her scramble to dress herself and then walk over to the desk, her arms crossed.

**"**You're gay!"

**"**I'm not anything."

**"**You don't want a fresh, clean, wet woman. You are gay."

**"**Labels only define the indefinable parts of a person and I don't appreciate it. Also, your attempts to sleep with me are of a futile nature in any case, for you will get no money, shelter, or intimacy from me. Put your clothes on and go on your way."

**"**WOW. So here's the funny thing.. .I actually missed you." Her voice was hurt and angry. He looked up at her, surprised. He was trying to be more like John. He was trying to understand sentiment. John would appreciate it if he were more kind. John had always wanted him to be more kind. Her offer had been genuine. She wasn't trying to take anything from him. Perhaps based on affection of some kind. He put his hand on her arm and squeezed a small bit (Apparently this was comforting?)

**"**I apologize. Thank you very much for helping me. I am glad of having seen you. It was... pleasant... to have your company with the desk and all." He watched her, to see if these words had any affect.

They did! Peculiar. She softened her anger, and gave a half smile. "Okay. That's better than I've ever gotten from you before. Good job." She laughed and broke into a real smile, and then left the room to dress.

Weeks passed. Sherlock bid his time. He waited, patiently and formulated a plan to win back John Watson. Sadly, this would not work unless John wanted to be won. But Sherlock did whatever he could to try to be subtle about urging John not to forget him.

Sherlock took cues from Irene Adler (shooting chest pain-whenever he thought of her) and send John text messages often, to no response.

_figured out how to make tea. SH_**  
**_Bored. SH_**  
**_Found a copy of the medical journal you wrote in college. SH_**  
**_It's rubbish. SH_**  
**_But you already knew that. SH_**  
**_Got a new violin. SH_**  
**_What is your favorite song? I'll learn it. SH_

Sherlock spends all afternoon composing these text messages, lying on the floor. He sends them in a flurry of anxiety usually by the evening. He always swears at himself for his stupidity and then plays the violin madly in his embarrassment. He is trying... TRYING... to flirt. Irene did this with Sherlock. She sent him a constant stream of text messages, no matter how stupid or banal. This embedded a deep sense of her inside of his brain.

This trick was an experiment akin to Pavlov's bell. After enough time, the sound of a text message would bring all of Sherlock's thoughts to a halt and remind him of Irene, despite how much he was trying to ignore her. Even just having a cell phone in your possession meant that you were open and available for the flirting to happen. John would think of Sherlock whenever the phone was on.

Sherlock wondered if John would consider this strategy unkind. But he had not responded negatively to these flirtations. Well, he hadn't responded at all.

The human heart was a complete mystery.

_The human heart is a complete mystery. SH_

John would like that one.

It has been three weeks. John stands at the kitchen counter, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea. The edges of his fingers are white as he grips his cup tightly with... what? Anger? Guilt? John can't differentiate between the two at the moment.

**"**I'm sorry John... but we have to bring it up. We have to talk about this. It would be stupid to get married if we can't talk about things like this."

**"**Mary, I just don't want to talk about it right now." He says in a very metered voice. He is trying to keep from running from the room. He is also trying to keep the secret that he is trying to keep from running to Sherlock. He feels the secret gnawing at him all day long. He walks on eggshells, trying to reveal nothing.

**"**Yes, John, I understand. But you never want to talk about this. It has been going on for three weeks, now. Ever since that day you slept at Baker street, you won't even let me touch you." She lowers her voice only imperceptibly, which John understands is out of respect for the neighbors. He wishes she had the passion to scream and throw dishes. Even in anger she is polite.

**"**Mary, I've gotten you off almost every day this week!"

**"**Yes, JOHN, but whenever I try to get _you_off, you pull my hands away! I haven't seen you naked for three weeks! This is not usual, John! You and I know each other's bodies! We have for years. Is there something wrong with me, John? Did I do something? Because I feel like EXACTLY the same person. I really do."

**"**You are." He goes silent, looking down at his tea.

**"**Then by all logical reasoning, my dear doctor Watson, something must have changed for you."This is a cutting remark- it sounds like something Sherlock would say. John spins around, eyes fierce with anger. Mary gasps and takes a step backwards. She has never seen John with eyes like that. She has never seen him angry.

He covers his eyes with his hands, rubs his face, and composes himself. He lowers his hands and his face is usual. Calm. "I'm sorry, Mary."

Mary is standing in her underwear, in the middle of the kitchen. John is fully clothed. They had been making out at the sink, by Mary's prompting. She had tried to give him head, and he had pulled her back up to eye height, telling her that she didn't have to do that.

**"**John. I don't know what is going on with you. But you have suddenly and without warning stopped being my fiancee."

**"**Mary, no!" he started.

**"**JOHN." She holds her hand up in the air and is terrifying. He has never seen her exude power before. " I can't marry a man who refuses to talk to me. I can't marry a man who won't touch me. I especially can't marry a man who is unable to understand what is going on with himself."

**"**Give me a fucking break, Mary!" He shouts, with no regard for the neighbors. "Give me a minute, okay? Okay, you're right. Yes... something is happening for me."

She down silently at the kitchen table and crosses her arms.

**"**But I can't... I dont' know how to... I... I need time."

**"**It's Sherlock Holmes." She sets her jaw with this accusation. "It has always been Sherlock Holmes."

He doesn't know if she knows. It's too late now. He has been lying for three weeks. His facade is falling apart.

**"**Mary, I... " He needs to tell her something. He has to tell her something. He has to save this marriage. He has to preserve this marriage. But she looks so unhappy, sitting at the table. Her face is contorted in ways he has never seen. She is not on the verge of tears... she is sitting close to rage.

He knows that preserving this marriage is important. But when he looks at her... he can't remember why. Why? Why would he try to preserve something that isn't making her happy? Why would he struggle so much to force a woman into a marriage with a man who secretly wants to be with another man?

He slumps down at the table. "Sherlock is alive."

The room is quiet.

**"**When did you find out?" Her voice is calm, and she isn't acting surprised. He looks up at her and is suddenly so impressed. She is so much stronger than he ever gave her credit for. He feels ashamed for having underestimated her.

**"**Three weeks ago. On the anniversary." He put his head in his hands.

**"**Why didn't you tell me?" She seems to be relaxed, but he can see the whites of her knuckles as she presses her hands together.

**"**I don't know if I can forgive him. I haven't seen him since that day." He slides his folded arms forward until his head is on the table.

**"**Oh, John. I wish you would've told me." She sounds like the Mary that he is used to.

**"**I do, too, Mary. I just... couldn't imagine... bringing him into my life... my life that we worked so hard to build... I just... didn't know if he deserved it. I just... " he sighed.

**"**I really wish you would've told me." Her voice wavers. Shakes. He looks up and sees her with tears falling down her cheeks. "Because then I'd believe that you trusted me. But you don't. You weren't going to tell me at all. I had to figure it out. You don't want to marry me. You want to marry Sherlock Holmes. Now that he is not dead, you finally have the choice."

**"**Mary... I could never make that choice. You've done so much for me. We have built so much together. I owe you everything."

**"**You owe me the decency of telling me the truth. I don't want to marry a man who won't tell me when very important things happen. I don't want to marry a man who is in love with another man. I don't want to marry a man because he OWES me. I want to marry a man because he loves me. Get out of my house, John." She makes a bold statement by claiming the house as her own. Is John getting kicked out? Was this really happening? She starts to work the engagement ring of her finger, and places it on the table.

**"**Mary... this can't be what is happening. I've worked so hard- we've worked so hard.. Mary. I don't want to fail you. Please let me not fail you." he begs. "Mary. I am so loyal to you. I am so fucking loyal. You know this. I choose you, Mary. I had to choose, and I chose you. I made you a promise. I intend to keep it."

Mary now looks sad. She takes a deep sigh, sits down, and puts her head on the table. "We could live in squalor, John. I would be fine about it. I could live in a tiny shack with nothing in it but two chairs and a table- and I'd be happy_if you loved me__."_ She stares him down.

His phone makes a whirring noise... he has received a text message. It sits in the middle of the table. They both look at it, and their eyes dart up to each other's. Mary reaches out and takes the phone, quickly. She opens it, and her eyes scan the message instantly. She throws slides the phone across the table to him.

**"**I know that you are loyal, John. You are loyal, attentive, and empathetic. I love that about you. But you aren't in love with me. " She shrugs her shoulders, and smiles a bitter smile. "Get out of my house, John. Get out of my house."

He snaps up the phone and walks out of the room, the front door, the stairwell, the building. He walks down the street briskly, without wander. He knows exactly where he is going. He is storming there. He feels angry- but underneath that he feels liberated. Freed. He hates himself for that. He wishes he hadn't hurt Mary. He wishes he hadn't lied. He wishes he could choose who he loved. Because right now, it should be Mary. But it isn't. It's Sherlock Holmes.

He opens his phone to read the text message that Sherlock has sent him.

_The human heart is a complete mystery. SH_

He laughs. He laughs loudly, with his face turned up to the cloudy sky. He stumbles, laughing hysterically. He looks like a madman. He feels like one.

He feels empty and defeated when he arrives at Baker street. He has no fight left in him. He has nothing left. He is just tired. He just wants to go home and lay down. But what home is his, now, but Baker street?

He hears the violin, faintly, above him. He is aware that Sherlock is looking at him. John considers looking upwards, but instead wants to run up those stairs and push Sherlock against a wall and take him.

Instead John walks up the stairs. He takes them one at a time, slowly, his hand running along the wallpaper. When he enters the flat, Sherlock is pretending that he isn't there. He plays a song that John has never heard before. The living room is completely empty, still, save for a desk, chair, and music stand.

John lays down on the floor in exhaustion. He closes his eyes, and feels the song that Sherlock is playing vibrate through the floorboards. Sherlock finishes with a flourish, and places the violin down on the music stand. He turns around and walks towards John Watson.

John's eyes are closed, and he hears the strong footsteps coming closer to him. He feels the weight of himself on the floorboards. He imagines the building collapsing under his weight. The boards would creak, first. Then a snapping sound... perhaps a whining similar to the cry of a board when penetrated by a drill. Then the crashing and collapsing of the walls... plaster crumbling.

John imagines this, but is interrupted by a rumbling awkward voice "... There is tea."

John is deeply disappointed, and puts his hands over his eyes. His marriage has fallen to pieces, he can't imagine what he has left of his life, and the person it all fell for is asking him to make tea.. Sherlock's petulant insistence that John make tea had always been frustrating, but never as devastating as this moment. Why had John been so distracted from Mary? Because of an overwhelming desire for this stupid asshole who can't figure out when to make his own cup of tea? Fuck.

John tries to keep his voice leveled, but is obviously upset. "Sherlock. I am _not_ going to make you tea right now".

There is a shuffling noise, a quiet shifting from left to right. "... I was going to make the tea. If you would like tea, that is." He opened his eyes. Sherlock was looking away from John. At his hands. At his shirt. Across the room. Anywhere other than John's face. Sherlock appeared to be... _nervous_. Oh, god... how cute.

John reached out ad lightly grasped Sherlock's ankle."Yes. Please."

Sherlock walked away, and John watched him do it. John watched Sherlock's hands as he pulled cups from the shelf. There were only two in the cupboard. John was paying attention. Time slowed down. John could see Sherlock suspended, mid-breath. He could see the flush on Sherlock's cheeks. John took this now familiar moment of slow motion to look around the apartment. Only the essentials were present. One desk. One chair. One music stand. But there were two cups. John felt this as sharply as a twist of a knife in the chest. Two cups. Sherlock had prepared for this moment. In all likelihood, Sherlock had purchased the tea weeks ago. Sherlock had been waiting.

The desk had one chair because Sherlock was the only one who was going to sit in it, feet on the desk, waiting for John Watson. There was a music stand to hold the sheets of paper that Sherlock used to compose music- strictly for occupying his time while waiting for John Watson. His eyes flicked back to Sherlock, who was wearing clean and crisp clothes... freshly washed hair... ironed shirt... looking presentable for John Watson.

From where John was laying, he could see the tread and wear on the dusty floor from where Sherlock had been pacing in circles. He could see the path and trajectory of Sherlock's longing. Sherlock's patience.

John closed his eyes, and with a breath the world slid back into normal time speed. The silence of his observations was interrupted by Sherlock's feet walking back and forth in the small kitchen as prepared the two cups of tea precisely to John's preference.

John's lip trembled, and he did his best to compose himself. He felt the blood rushing to his face, and he felt deep confusion at the loss of his best friend Mary competing with the joy of reunion to his best friend Sherlock. He was not a man to weigh the life of any person over another. He felt so deeply guilty for the nervous shakes running through his body. He felt like a traitor for the arousal he felt knowing that soon Sherlock was walking back towards him. He wanted to take the proper time to mourn the loss of his fiancee. But his body screamed to take Sherlock inside of himself. To devour him. To dissolve the barriers between them. Clothes, skin, bones. John wanted to dissolve into Sherlock.

Sherlock walked back towards John, and placed both cups near John's head. John looked up just in time to see Sherlock bending over him momentarily as he lowered himself onto the ground next to John. Sherlock laid himself down, only inches away. He stared straight ahead at the ceiling, while John openly stared at Sherlock.

A silence descended upon them. Sherlock shifted nervously. Eventually John looked away, and also focused on the ceiling.

"Mary left me." John cut the silence. "She left me after I told her that you were still alive."

Sherlock betrayed nothing. Completely still, his hands at his sides, laying on the floor, Sherlock said nothing that indicated his feelings. The silence felt as pervasive as the dust constantly settling over the surfaces in the room.

"Sherlock." John states, and looks back over his shoulder. "Sherlock, she left me because she thinks that I'm in love with you instead of her."

The silence is thicker, and heavier, like a blanket. "Sherlock... say something?"

"J-John..." Sherlock's voice hitches and he swallows before continuing. "This conversation is outside of my experience. I don't know what to say, currently."

"Look at me, Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly turns his head to the right to meet John's stare. John's eyes are red. His face is gaunt. He looks like he is in pain. Sherlock wants to ease that pain- but he does not understand it. He always thought that the human heart was negligible. Perhaps, useless. But if he had only tried to spend time understanding it, he might have some knowledge available to him in this moment. But currently, he is useless. He hates that feeling. But through his confusion, Sherlock deduces that John desires... comfort?

Sherlock reaches a hand upward and towards John, but hesitates in mid-air. He has a moment of doubt. He must proceed with caution. Last time, his actions moved John to leave. Sherlock had kissed John's tears and it had made him very angry. He brings his arm back down to the ground, but John grasps his wrist before he can take back the moment of sentiment. "No, Sherlock, that would have been good." John murmurs.

John gently brings Sherlock's hand up to his face, and places it there. "If you had done this, it would have been good."

Sherlock closes his eyes and feels the warmth of John's face on his hand. Stubble. The twitching facial muscles... indicating.. a smile? Sherlock's ability to process information is rapidly leaving him. John is trying to communicate. But Sherlock can't begin to deduce what comes next. He lays there, completely still, with his hand on John's face.

"You could stroke your thumb across my cheek. It's comforting." John offers, and then flutters his eyes closed as Sherlock does this very thing. He sighs and gives into the feeling of being comforted by Sherlock Holmes. This is a feeling John never even thought to desire for... he had once thought it was not possible. He brings his hand to Sherlock's neck, and pulls him in with both hands until their foreheads touch.

Sherlock's hand stops caressing John's face. He is frozen, suddenly, with panic. He hasn't experienced another person willfully touching him since... that time. He holds his breath as hot pain shoots from the wound on his chest. Behind his eyelids- a bright memory of snow falling. He rushes back to John with an intake of breath as John begins to run his thumb on Sherlock's cheek. John was right. It is comforting.

Sherlock can hear John's breath. He can feel John's breath. He can feel John's nose touching his own. He has lost all ability to deduce. He is completely useless. "John... I can't tell... what... what is is that you want."

"Wait a minute...!" John's face breaks out into a grin. "You can't deduce that? Am I not giving you enough information? Sherlock- open your eyes." John has a hand on either of Sherlock's ears- and gives them a playful tug.

Sherlock opens his eyes and sees John at a shorter distance than he ever thought was going to be possible. Their eyelashes are in danger of catching on one another. His body feels detached. His mind is slogging through a thick cloud of John. He has no idea what is happening anymore..

"Sherlock... aren't you going to do that thing where you see and know everything? Can't you tell what I'm thinking? What I'm feeling?"

"I've never been able to tell what people are thinking. I've only ever been able to deduce facts. I can't... see... any facts... objectively. At this moment. Currently."

"Nothing at all?"

"I know nothing right now." Sherlock closes his eyes, because the amount of information that he is trying to process is overwhelming him. He tries to go to his mind palace. He can't find it. He can only hear his own heart hammering inside of his chest.

There is a silence. There is breathing. The criss-cross of tangled arms mingled with shirt lapels hanging open.

"Okay. Sherlock. I'm going to give you some information." John's voice is a low rumble and he tilts his head forward enough to kiss Sherlock Holmes. It's slow, quiet, and soft. John is completely surprised with how soft Sherlock's lips are. Nothing like the small fruiting lips of Mary- but still soft. He knows that Sherlock is lagging- his mind three seconds behind. He wants to kiss Sherlock fiercely, but he is used to hiding his fierceness. He assumes that Sherlock will need a minute before he starts kissing back.

Sherlock can't think. He can't take in anything. He never uses the word "wonderful" or "sweet" or "heartbreaking" to describe things. He has no words in his vocabulary to think about this experience. He only knows that he doesn't want to stop. He wants to continue. At the same time, there is a small rising panic deep inside of him. He thinks of snow falling and it gets worse. He thinks of the taste of John, and it subsides.

John stops. Sherlock's body screams for more.

"Sherlock. Is that something that you wanted?" he asks quietly.

"Y...Y-y-yes." Sherlock's voice is shuddering- shaking. His whole body is shaking.

"I would be happy if you kissed me back." John is helping Sherlock through this, one step at a time. Something is happening that John doesn't understand. Something is wrong with Sherlock. John assumes it is inexperience. Also- he knows well enough that Sherlock is useless with things he knows nothing about.

"Please... don't stop." Sherlock barely chokes out before John returns. Sherlock does his best to kiss John back, and is already deeply embarrassed. John is expressing himself gracefully, and Sherlock is completely awkward and blocky. John opens his mouth slightly, and Sherlock does the same.

The moments tumble into interlocking pieces of a puzzle that Sherlock can't understand. He hasn't had a human relationship go this way- from the intimacy of John to the intimacy of this moment. No person had ever known him as well. Any person who had ever touched Sherlock had done so out of some sort of fever for his tall and pale body. Not for Sherlock's mind. Not for Sherlock's preference for tea, old wallpaper, and danger. He knew well enough to know that John knew the inside and outside of Sherlock. This felt safe.

But as the kissing became deeper, and tongues started to enter into the equation, Sherlock felt his safety slipping. Suddenly John was pressed against Sherlock, and he could feel that John was aroused. This feeling of John, hard, pressing against him, opened up that panic feeling in Sherlock's chest. He felt shooting pain, and as he felt himself getting hard he gasped with panic on John's mouth, and pulled away. He held one hand on his chest, teeth clenched, and leered with pain and panic. His breathing was short and shallow, and he gripped a fistful of John's shirt with his free hand, pushing him away.

"S-S-S-Stop... I.." Sherlock was shaking. "I can't...I can't do that.. theres... there was.." Sherlock can see snow falling through the window. He is suddenly cold. He is cold all over his body and he is cold inside of the scar where a dagger had pierced one of the ventricles of his heart. He can feel the pain of the wound, and the pain of the wound being so sharply cold.

He had cried out and struggled to stop himself from reflexively pulling the knife out of his chest. If he did, he would bleed to death in moments. The blade was the only thing keeping his heart from gushing out blood and filling his chest cavity. He had stumbled around the room, naked, with a knife in his chest. He had to leave the knife inside of himself and leave the room and find someone to remove it, and then stitch it closed. He threw the door open, and as the snow poured in the small cottage he remembered that he had to put clothes on or he would die of exposure on his way to find a doctor.

He screamed as he bent over to put on pants... shoes... and a coat with no shirt on underneath. Sherlock was not a man to scream under pressure. He was not a man to scream with pain. But this day as he tried to close his coat around the knife handle, he moaned in agony. Behind him, Irene Adler's quickly cooling corpse was slowly collecting snowflakes in small piles over the curves of her hips.

He squinted into the snowstorm. He knew he had only moments before he would succumb to exposure. He was wearing a coat but only that, really. He was without gloves or hat. He closed his eyes and felt his mind palace burning but he ran inside of it to find the map of the town. He had arrived the day before, and the map was freshly drawn.

Two blocks south. Four blocks east. Hospital. Emergency room on the south side. There were no taxis to be seen. It was midnight. Sherlock began to walk. He balanced himself between urgency and delicacy. He could not jostle the wound too severely, or else he could cut his heart even deeper. But he was not completely sure that he would be able to survive for longer than 20 minutes in the snowstorm.

The minutes began to blur together, and Sherlock was in dire need. He needed to be not alone at this moment of insane vulnerability. Even if he would be no warmer, he needed someone to walk with him. He needed a joke, at this moment. Perhaps reassurance. He needed John. John. John Watson. Where was John Watson. He needed John Watson. He needed John Watson more than ever.

"Sherlock? Sherlock. You don't have to do anything. I'm sorry." John's voice cut through the snow, and Sherlock fell back into reality. Sherlock looked up at John and then back down at himself, still hard. He flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh, John. I just... I just can't do that." He rolled over onto his side, his back to John. He put his hands over his face. "I had never... well, that is... I just.."

"It's okay, Sherlock. Actually, I feel like I should apologize. I know that you've never slept with another person."

"John, I had never..."

"Sherlock, I was never trying to push you. I just... get very excited sometimes. I know that you need to take things one step at a time. We can do that." John immediately flushed as he realized he was actually talking about having sex... out loud. Talking to Sherlock about having sex with Sherlock. He shifted his weight as he was suddenly reminded of his erection with a rushing of blood. "Or we don't have to.. if you don't want to." He added at the end for good measure, hoping that would not be the case.

"No, John, I had never slept with another person." Sherlock scrunched up at the shoulders "...until Irene Adler."

John's entire body seizes up with immediate jealousy. He was always aware of The Woman. He knew that Sherlock was obsessed with her. He had always assumed it had been her desire for Sherlock that had driven his curiosity. Specifically, her desire for his mind. He knew that Sherlock always fell hard for flattery. But knowing now that she had taken Sherlock's virginity... filled him with seething rage. There was no way that she could have been as respectful and gentle as John was planning to be.

He did not understand what had happened, but it obviously did not turn out well. Where was she now? Images of Irene with her back arched, riding on top of Sherlock filled his mind. He shook his head.

John's mind zoomed back into focus as he processed the moments that had just passed. Sherlock was traumatized, it seemed, by sexual arousal. He had never seen Sherlock actually expressing fear. He had pushed John away. In fact, they were a significant distance apart, now. What happened to that comforting kiss? Every time they came close to one another, one of the two of them got seriously upset.

What was happening?

"Sherlock." John reached out, and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. His hand lingered. "Sherlock. What happened?" he gently rolled Sherlock back to him. Sherlock obeyed, rolling onto his back. His face looked tortured. John's concern raised enough to completely distract him from his erection.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. This time John did not feel excited. He felt dread. While he had been moving on from Sherlock and having pleasant amounts of sex with Mary- something terrible had happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock let the left side of his shirt fall open, revealing the worst of his scars. He kept his eyes closed and ran his fingers down the scar, a grimace forming on his face.

"Irene Adler came to see me when I was hunting. She found me. She gave me legitimate tactical information. Then she successfully seduced me. I had my first sexual experience. Afterward, she stabbed me in the heart and I shot her in the chest. She died. I survived." Sherlock related this with a voice that gave no sway to emotion. He laid these items out in the air as facts. "The information she gave me helped me greatly. She informed me that there was a bounty placed on my head by Moriarty's estate lawyers. She succeeded in lowering my defenses well enough to try to claim her bounty. In my absolute ignorance of sex and intimacy, I actually found myself trusting her. I was a fool. I was ignorant." Sherlock's voice was starting to sound scratchy and raw. "It is difficult for me to understand sexuality. It has always been a mystery, bordering on obviously useless."

John felt cold. He tried to imagine Sherlock in pain. He tried to imagine the knife- hilt deep in Sherlock. He looked at the scar. It had hit him in the heart. It must have pierced his heart to some degree. John's body shook with a cold shiver as he realized that Sherlock must have been as close a a minute away from death. He hadn't been there. He wouldn't have been able to perform the open heart surguy required to save him from a quick death- but he could have been there to BE there. But he wasn't.

"I can't seem to separate arousal from a fear of death." Sherlock admits, and closes his eyes. Sherlock has never said this out loud to another person. It has been two years since he killed Irene Adler. Since that day, every erection brings an anxiety attack. He has divorced himself from his sexuality.

"Sherlock." He opens his eyes to see John's face leaning over his. "Sherlock, do you trust me?" John asks quietly.

"Yes. You are the only person I've ever trusted."

"I promise I'll never hurt you on purpose." He sets his jaw and leans down to put his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"John. Will it become easier?"

"Will what become easier?"

"...being near one another."

"Yes. It will. We just have to get used to it."

"Are you going to stay here?" Sherlock's hand had found it's way to John's shoulder blades.

"I was hoping that would be alright." John admitted, sheepishly.

Sherlock sighed and sounded relieved. "Finally."

too squishy? NEXT CHAPTER: what the fuck, Irene Adler.

VULNERABLE AUTHOR MOMENT: I'm actually not totally sure if this is going in a believeable direction. Is it a bit too... emo? Is this good? Should I keep going? I'd love to get some feedback. LOVE, CC.


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